


soldier boys, fighting their way to glory

by darkenergies



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, even then its mostly yuri hardcore crushing on otabek, mostly platonic unless you squint until the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 04:30:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10801737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkenergies/pseuds/darkenergies
Summary: Everyone is born with a Gift. What one chooses to do with it is up to them.Only slightly AU.(Please read first author's note at the end)





	soldier boys, fighting their way to glory

**Author's Note:**

> literally the biggest meme of a class i've ever been in: freeform essay extra credit question, 3 pages max, you can write absolutely anything as long as it follows the idea "everyone has a gift!"  
> my brain: yuri on ice au. write it bitch. you gotta
> 
> (in short, i handed this in for an actual class. i took out the swearing though)

**St. Petersburg, Russia. Summer 2009.**

“His Gift isn’t figure skating or ballet, is it?” “Why is he here when he could be training his real gift?” “What’s it like in Kazakhstan so that he hasn’t trained his Gift yet and he’s still struggling here?”

It wasn’t that Otabek didn’t know what the other children in the camp, even the instructors, said about him in hushed whispers behind his back. It wasn’t that they didn’t bother him, either. He knew going against those small letters written on his left wrist would be a struggle, that at some point, it would be obvious that his Gift didn’t align with his chosen discipline.

Sometimes he did wonder what he would be doing now if he hadn’t followed his older sister to the local ice rink all those years ago and fallen in love with skating. If he had listened to the strong but elegantly written музыка on his wrist despite hating every classical instrument his parents threw at him as a child.

So the whispers were right, in their own crooked way. His Gift wasn’t related to skating or ballet, except tangentially. But from years of skating and training, seeing dead-eyed but technically talented skaters, Otabek realized that the Gift doesn’t dictate what you love, only what you’re naturally good at. And he resolved to do whatever it took to make it to the top to show that, even if he had to put in ten times the effort as those whose Gift was figure skating.

Maybe that’s why the bright, focused green eyes of the other loner in the class fascinated him so much.

~

Yuri flicked a stray bang out of his eye as he leaned over his left leg on the barre. The others giggled and chatted quietly behind him as he stretched throughout the break. It wasn’t as if any of them wanted to talk to him, the ballet prodigy two years younger than the rest of them, and you know what, he didn’t want to talk to them either.

He passed a glance at the dark haired boy sitting alone in the other corner of the studio. They didn’t talk to him either, but it was for a different reason. Dedushka always told him to be nice to others, but if he was being honest here, the boy was terrible. Nearly three years older than him and he could hardly do a middle split. Pathetic, really. It was so obvious that ballet wasn’t his Gift, and since ballet was a big part of this figure skating camp, it was clear that figure skating wasn’t his gift either. What was that idiot doing here wasting his life?

Yuri could feel the little flame of anger growing inside his chest, so he shook his head to clear it. Yelling at the other boy would only disturb the class and ruin his chances of advancing to the next class level in a few weeks and besides, the boy wasn’t worth thinking about anyway. He’d quit ballet and skating soon and Yuri would never see him again.

With a quiet huff, Yuri stood up and put his right leg on the barre. You could never be too flexible.

 

**Barcelona, Spain. December 11th, 2014.**

Trying to breathe quickly, deeply, and quietly while hiding from your crazy fangirls, Yuri learned, was not an easy task. He hid in the alleyway, pressed flat against the brick, listening to the noises of the Yuri’s Angels that had been chasing him and willing them to go the fuck away.

…Did that girl just say she could smell him? How did she even know how he smelled?

He was so fucked.

If he was going to be honest with himself, Yuri had a moment of internal panic when he heard the motorcycle. Part of him was convinced that one of Yuri’s Angels had learned how to ride a bike and was literally going to kidnap him and whisk him away and he would never get to compete at the Grand Prix Final and never get to go back to St. Petersburg or Moscow and never eat his dedushka’s pirozkhis again because she’d lock him up in her basement forever. He couldn’t believe his young life would end at fifteen.

To be fair, he did get whisked away on a motorcycle from that alleyway. It was just by Otabek Atlin, then just another rival and competitor to him. (If Yuri could go back now, he’d probably punch his past self in the face screaming “THAT’S GONNA BE YOUR BEST FRIEND, YOU IDIOT! GIVE HIM MORE CREDIT!”)

“Yuri, get on.”

“…huh?”

Yuri barely got his hands up in time to catch the helmet Otabek had thrown at him. “Are you coming or not?”

Yuri chanced a glance behind him. Hearing Otabek’s motorcycle had incited the fangirls to round the corner and they were approaching fast with cameras and phones out. Yuri shuddered. Riding with Otabek would probably not be the best choice with regards to his PR, but it wasn’t like he had any other option and besides, since when did he care? He nodded, put his helmet on, and got on the bike behind Otabek with an uncharacteristically quiet “Yeah.”

After the adrenaline had died down, Yuri realized two things: one, he had no idea where they were going and neither he nor Otabek were familiar with Barcelona; and two, he was grabbing Otabek’s waist. And somehow his mind decided to worry about the latter until he realized that Otabek had stopped at a park and was gently shrugging Yuri off.

They walked through the park together as the sun set. Yuri wanted to ask Otabek if he knew where they were going, but Otabek seemed like the quiet sort of guy, so for once Yuri held his tongue (he could probably count the number of times he’d done that on one hand). They stopped at a bridge and Otabek turned to Yuri.

“I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while, to be honest,” Otabek said with no preamble whatsoever.

Yuri blinked in confusion. “We barely even know each other.”

Otabek looked down at his hands as he placed them on the bridge railing. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d remember,” he said, “Do you remember Yakov’s training camp five years ago? We were in the same class.”

“Really?” Yuri widened his eyes in surprise. “I don’t remember that.”

Otabek nodded. “I was in my first year in juniors at the time. But I couldn’t keep up with the Russian juniors so they put me in the novice class. That’s where I met you.” A pause. “Yuri Plisetsky had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier.”

“Me?” Yuri mused, “A soldier…?” As he looked out into the sunset, he felt it would be only fair to give his side of the story. So he said, “I had just moved my home rink from Moscow to St. Petersburg. I was desperate. I decided I wouldn’t complain until I was good enough.”

“After that camp, I moved around to train, from Russia to the US and then to Canada. I only managed to return to my home rink in Almaty last year. Now, more than ever, I want to win the Grand Prix for Kazakhstan as much as I do for myself.” Otabek continued, sensing a lull in Yuri’s story.

Yuri cut him off abruptly. “Otabek, why did you talk to me?” he asked, “I’m a rival, aren’t I?”

“I’ve always thought we were alike,” Otabek replied, “That’s all. Are you going to become friends with me or not?”

Yuri’s jaw dropped slightly. Friends? He’d never really had someone to call a friend before. He couldn’t stop the blush from appearing on his skin as he held out his hand for Otabek to take.

Otabek smiled, a soft one that looked surprisingly pleasant on his normally taciturn face. “Dinner?” he asked, and Yuri nodded as they walked through the park back to the motorbike.

~

Dinner was a pleasant affair at a local restaurant whose wait staff spoke just enough English that Otabek and Yuri were able to order in their own accented English…that is, it was until Viktor and Yuuri decided to invite themselves, and what seemed like every other skater competing at the Final, into their table and most importantly, _Yuri’s personal space_. And could they not discuss the mess that was last year’s banquet? Please?

So naturally, Yuri excused himself as soon as he finished his food with some bullshit about going to bed early because the short program was tomorrow and he wanted to be well rested. To beat everyone and win, of course. Otabek excused himself right after Yuri and followed him out the door, leaving the others in the restaurant.

As soon as Yuri was outside the restaurant, he let out a big sigh of frustration. “Who do those two think they are, thinking they can just stalk me around the city and barge in on my own business?” he huffed. He looked up to Otabek standing next to him, eyes twinkling and just barely holding back a smile at Yuri’s outburst. “What?” Yuri asked, accusatory.

Otabek simply shrugged and handed him his helmet.

 

**Barcelona, Spain. December 9th, 2015.**

Yuri wasn’t sure if these motorcycle rides with Otabek were becoming a regular thing or if it was simply that the Grand Prix Final was in Barcelona again. Because he could swear he and Otabek were standing at the same bridge, at this same time, right next to each other, almost exactly a year ago. Honestly. Yuri’s half-convinced that if he and Otabek ever got married one of them would plan out a vacation just to make the proposal happen on this very bridge (shut up Yuri, said the voice in his head, you haven’t even told him you like him that way yet).

“Beka,” Yuri started, wanting to break the tension-filled silence that he felt was hanging between them. He wasn’t used to anything but comfortable silence between them. “As much as I love the view, I know you wouldn’t bring us here for no good reason.”

Otabek sighed quietly. “I wanted to tell you something, but Skype never seemed personal enough and since we had no Grand Prix events together this year and I was busy with ice shows again over the summer, I hadn’t seen you in person since Worlds. And I wasn’t really ready to tell you then, yet.”

Yuri frowned. “Beka, just say it. I’m still your best friend,” he said (leaving out the “...but I really wish we were more than that and if you confess to me Beka I swear I will punch you in the face”), “You shouldn’t feel pressured to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

Otabek shook his head. “I do want to tell you, Yura. It’s about my Gift.”

Yuri had all but forgotten about the Gifts, the little black marks on the inside of your non-dominant wrist that indicated what each person would be most innately talented at. Childhood was spent honing those skills or pinpointing exactly what it was for the vaguer ones, and nearly everyone followed their Gift. Yuri was an exception in that aspect, but even then his Gift had helped him greatly in his skating and few knew that катание never showed up on his wrist. In the close-knit world of competitive figure skating, Yuri assumed that everyone who had made it to this level had skating, or something very closely related, as their Gift.

Otabek held out his left wrist. Yuri could see the remnants of the faint black lines, as the Gift mark faded slowly until adulthood. He frowned, trying to make out the Cyrillic letters.

“музыка,” Otabek whispered, “It means ‘music’ in Kazakh.”

Yuri’s eyes widened in understanding.

“I was never cut out to be a figure skater, but I fell in love with it anyway,” continued Otabek, “I hated every instrument thrown at me as a child, even though I always learned quickly. Turns out my Gift referred to my talent for DJ-ing. That’s why I was so touched when you wanted to see me that night in Poblenou, even though I said no because you were underage. And when you asked me to pick your music for a new exhibition piece that night…it was as if my hard work to catch up to all the Gifted skaters and my own Gift finally made sense together to me.”

A single tear managed to escape Yuri’s eye onto Otabek’s hand, and at that moment, Yuri unclasped one of his hands from Otabek’s to pull up his own sleeve, revealing the mark from his own Gift.

“балет,” Yuri read out from his less faded mark. He looked up at Otabek, who gave his small encouraging smile. “It’s not as drastic as yours but...I was never meant to be a figure skater. I should be the youngest principal danseur at a ballet company somewhere. I picked figure skating because there was so much more freedom in it to me. But everyone kept looking at me and giving me ballet inspired programs until I had to do my own thing last year. That’s why Welcome to the Madness was so important to me…I was finally able to be myself, and I had my best friend helping me along the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to write more scenes for this fic that are part of the actual story and/or an epilogue since I'm unsatisfied with how much of the theme/idea I want this fic to convey actually managed to get across so far (but I was working with a serious page limit originally). College is kicking my ass right now so I don't know if I'll be able to finish any of the additional writing until after finals (I'm on quarters, so that'll be in June) and then I have to juggle that with a research internship. So I've posted this fairly unfinished anyway because I want it out there, I do like what I have so far, and it _does_ work as a story. Any new updates, however, will probably be published within the body of the original text and not as additional chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> A long explanation of the timeline and (not explicitly mentioned) ages, which is probably largely irrelevant to most of you but may be interesting to those interested in comparing YOI to actual competitive figure skating:
> 
> Yuri on Ice completely neglects the entire 2013-2014 skating season where the GPF was in Fukuoka and Worlds was in Saitama. Hell, that was the 2014 Sochi Olympics season. I don't know what was going on there. The Sochi GPF depicted in the show was the 2012-2013 season and there are two back-to-back GPFs in Barcelona, during the 2014-2015 and 2015-2016 seasons. (This of course ignoring that the scores were unrealistically high for that time period... I'd say the show is about at the 2016-2017 season that just ended or the next season or two, even, in terms of technical difficulty and average scores across the board.) For the purposes of this fic, I decided to make the Barcelona GPF in the series the first Barcelona GPF, or the 2014-2015 season, which is why that scene is in December 2014. I did the math for 5 years back, 2009, and since competitions in competitive skating are typically September/October-March/April (longer if Olympic season since those are in February), the most reasonable time to have a skating camp would be in the summer. A quick search on the USFSA site confirmed this. I also used the actual dates and schedules of the Barcelona GPFs, available on Wikipedia.
> 
> In terms of Yuri's age, I figure he's 10 at the training camp, 15 at the 2014 GPF, and 16 at the 2015 GPF. ISU rules state that a skater in the senior level must be at least 15 before July 1st of the preceding year. Yuri's birthday is in March, so I figure he only turned 15 in March 2014, which is technically only the preceding season since GPF is in December (meaning he could have competed at senior GP circuit the year before but not Europeans/Worlds/Olympics, but as far as I know skaters go by seasons for things like this), and Yuri would have wanted to go senior as early as he could. Otabek's age is 12 at training camp, 18 at 2014 GPF, and 19 at 2015 GPF by virtue of being canonically 18 during the Barcelona GPF in canon and having a Halloween birthday (he turns 13 a few months after the training camp).
> 
>  
> 
> Translations (via Google Translate):
> 
> музыка/mwzıka - music in Kazakh  
> дедушка/dedushka - grandpa in Russian; I chose to use the romanization for this because I’m unfamiliar with how to indicate possession in Russian and that was a phrase I needed  
> балет/balet - ballet in Russian


End file.
